


Coach's Corner

by torigates



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Coaches, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-04 13:16:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,474
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4138959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/torigates/pseuds/torigates
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sid’s going through his lineup one last time before he gives it out to the team. He has already spent too much time on it for his liking, but last week Doug’s mom cornered him after practice with a legal pad and spent twenty minutes extolling the virtues of her son’s hockey skills and explaining why Sid should give him more ice time. </p><p>Doug isn’t that good.</p><p>In Doug’s defense he’s also eleven.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coach's Corner

**Author's Note:**

  * For [red_crate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/red_crate/gifts).



> The prompt was "Rival peewee hockey coaches who fall in love." Which, was harder than I thought it was going to be, given no matter how hard I tried, I just could not get Sid and G in to _rivals_ mindset. They just like each other too darn much! red_crate, I hope you like the twist I put on it nonetheless. You were great to write for! 
> 
> Thank you to all my betas, and everyone who talked it out with me. Your help was invaluable!

Sid’s going through his lineup one last time before he gives it out to the team. He has already spent too much time on it for his liking, but last week Doug’s mom cornered him after practice with a legal pad and spent twenty minutes extolling the virtues of her son’s hockey skills and explaining why Sid should give him more ice time. 

Doug isn’t that good.

In Doug’s defense he’s also eleven. 

Sid sighs and folds up the piece of paper that’s now more scribbles than an actual lineup. He’ll go with his gut, like he always does. Parents always believe in their kids, and Sid honestly thinks that, when they come to them with their rants, they’re coming from a good place… most of the time. 

The parent factor is so exhausting. 

Which is why Kris is on him all the time to coach rep instead of Sid’s preferred house league. He keeps using the fact that Sid would get to pick his own players instead of having them randomly assigned as a perk, and Sid guesses it is, in a sense, but there is something almost whimsical about getting a bunch of kids assigned to him and then just having them be _his_ for a season. Sid always dedicates himself to loving his team fully, and there is something about choosing to do so, that makes it extra special for him. 

Practice goes well. Sid spends some extra time with Doug working on his shot and his skating, and thinks he can probably be in the starting lineup next game. Sid can tell the kid really loves hockey, but there’s no great talent there, and he’s not going to make it past ‘A’ if he ever does make it to the rep leagues. 

That’s okay. Loving the sport for what it is, is enough. Sid knows from personal experience.

There’s a team waiting in the visitor’s bench for Sid’s group to clear the ice. They’re bouncing and excited, and it makes Sid smile. He loves seeing kids enjoy the game as much as he does. It’s one of his favourite things about being a coach-- being able to pass that passion on to others. He can tell by the logo on their jerseys they’re one of the rep teams, although Sid’s not sure which level. 

He ushers his kids off the ice. The zamboni guy is waiting patiently enough, but he’s got the doors open, and Sid’s ice time is done anyway. They all troop down the hall to the dressing room, leaving their sticks in the hallway just outside the door. The familiar rumble of the zamboni circling the ice picks up, and Sid takes a moment to just-- soak it all in. He loves this sport. 

Standing at the end of the hallway is a tall, lanky man. His broad shoulders are noticeably visible underneath a sweatshirt bearing the same team logo as the kids waiting on the bench. He’s wearing thin track pants that do nothing to hide a truly spectacular ass Sid wouldn’t mind getting his hands on. 

Next to him, one of his players has their head tilted all the way back so they can look him in the eye. It’s almost comical with the kid’s helmet making them look like a bobblehead, and they seem so tiny standing next to the guy, Sid’s heart seizes a little in his chest. 

He shakes his head, trying to get a grip. 

The guy plants one plate sized hand on the top of the kid’s head and shakes their whole body a little before he nudges them out onto the ice. Sid frowns, but the kid looks none the worse for wear. 

When the kid’s gone down the hallway, the guy looks up at Sid. He smirks, his bottom lip caught in his teeth and just the barest hint of tongue poking out. 

“Hi,” Sid says, reaching out his hand. “I’m Sidney Crosby.” 

The guy gives him an obvious once over. Sid’s used to being sized up, he’s just not used to it being quite so… heated. 

“You’re Sidney Crosby?” he asks. His voice is deep with a thick Russian accent, and despite--or perhaps because of--the teasing quirk of his mouth and look in his eyes, Sid isn’t bothered by the hostile tone of the question. 

“Yeah,” he says. “What of it?” Sid has a bit of a reputation in the league, both from his own time as a player coming up--the one who could have made it, but didn’t--and as a coach. People tend to react differently to meeting him, and Sid has taken to guarding his reactions accordingly. 

“Thought you’d be taller,” the man says, smiling outright now. “Letang talk about you so much, think Sidney Crosby ten feet tall. Going to save league.” 

“The league doesn’t need saving,” Sid says hotly. 

“Mmm, is why you coach only house league?” he asks. Sid still doesn’t know his name. 

“Uh,” Sid says. He internally counts to ten to keep his anger in check. “There’s nothing wrong with house league,” Sid says, hotter than he would like. “The kids are here because they want to play, and everyone should be able to, even if they don’t have the skill--” 

He holds up both hands, a clear _I surrender_ gesture. “Sorry,” he says. “Just jokes. Of course all kids who want should play. Of course.” 

Sid eyes his warily not sure how genuine this guy--who still hasn’t given Sid his name--is being. 

“I’m Geno Malkin,” he says after a beat too long of silence. 

Oh. Sid’s heard plenty about Geno Malkin, and it just figures he would get off on the wrong foot with the guy he’s been wanting to meet for ages. 

“Yeah,” Sid says. “Kris told me about you.” Geno is new to the neighbourhood. Which in itself, is a bit of an understatement, given he moved to Pittsburgh from Russia. Sergei suggested he join the league as a coach as a way to meet people and practice his English. (Sid was sad to lose Coach Gonchar to the girls’ league, but he understood that Gonch wanted to coach his own kids.) 

“He tell me about you. Big hotshot coach too good for rep leagues.” 

“That’s not true,” Sid says. Well, he’s sure that’s what Tanger _told_ Geno, but that’s not the reason why Sid doesn’t coach the rep teams. He just wants every kid to have good, solid coaching. Besides, there were enough volunteers as it was for the rep teams. They didn’t need Sid. 

“Hm” is all Geno says before turning his back on Sid and walking down the hall towards the ice. Sid can hear the faint sounds of shovels on the ice, alerting him the zamboni is done its rounds. The loud clang of the door to the ice opening a moment later tells Sid he was right. He doesn’t call after Geno. 

-

Sid’s team practices a lot before Geno’s team. 

If Sid didn’t know one hundred percent the league schedule was set months in advance, he would think it’s some kind of a set up. As it is, he has to deal with Geno every other Thursday evening smirking and asking Sid how his team did at their game on Saturday morning. 

He always looks happy when Sid tells him they won and frowns aggressively when they lose. 

“Do better next time,” he says with a smile. 

Sid can never fully tell, is Geno mocking him? Or sincere? 

For Geno’s part, his team is in the middle of a record breaking season, winning nearly every game they play. Sid would be impressed if Geno didn’t look so damn smug every time he delivers the news. 

Still, Sid can’t deny it’s impressive, and one Thursday, after he’s seen all his players safely off with their parents, he catches sight of Geno’s team on the schedule board. They have a home game the following night, and Sid thinks: _Why not?_

He sneaks into the stands just before puck drop, feeling a little silly, but he doesn’t want Geno to notice him beforehand and ask why Sid is there. 

No group of eleven year olds is going to play truly spectacular hockey, but Sid’s a little surprised at the level of difference between these kids and his own house league players. He can see the start of actual plays being executed. The real difference is in the players’ skating, Sid can pick out which ones on the team are serious just from their skill level alone. He remembers early morning power skating, his dad driving him to the arena. 

He misses it, just a little. 

Geno’s team wins handily, and Sid can admit Geno looks good behind the bench. Sid can hear him yelling over the sounds of skates and the parents cheering in the crowd. But when a player comes to the bench after missing a pass and causing a turnover, Sid watches Geno bend down and talk directly into the boy’s ear until he’s smiling again. 

Sid hangs around after the game, waiting just outside the locker rooms. 

Geno comes out after most of his team, and Sid watches him talk to a few parents and kids, teasing and joking. Sid has a clear thought: _Oh no, he’s hot_. 

And he is. 

It’s not like Sid’s been impervious to Geno’s looks this entire time. He’s long limbed with broad shoulders and curling hair that makes Sid want to reach out and brush it out of his face. He’s got a goofy grin and kind eyes that turn from teasing to scorching in a second. 

“Hello,” Geno says when he finally spots Sid. He leans against the wall in the lobby, making the long lines of his body appear even longer. Sid has to crane his neck a little to look up at Geno, and he fights the urge to scowl, knowing it would only give Geno the satisfaction he wants. “You come to watch?” 

Sid smirks and crosses his arms over his chest. “So what if I did? I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.” 

“And?” Geno asks. Sid gets distracted by the way his tongue pokes out between his teeth, just the tip. “You like?” 

Sid figures there’s two ways he can take it from here. He can continue to be coy and to flirt, or: 

“Yeah,” he says licking his lips and giving Geno a very obvious once over. “I really did.” 

Geno does a literal double take at Sid’s words, and Sid smirks to himself. 

Or: he could take option two and be completely overt with his intentions. That seems to work well for him. 

“You want I take you out?” Geno asks, once he has gathered his wits. 

“I think I’ll take you out instead,” Sid says, “since it was my idea and all.” 

Geno sputters. “Not true,” he insists. 

Sid arches an eyebrow and crosses his arms over his chest. “Oh yeah?” he asks. “I didn’t see you making a move.” He pauses. “Maybe you’re all talk?” 

Geno sputters some more, and Sid can’t help it, he throws back his head and laughs. Geno just looks _so offended_ , like Sid just insulted his entire honour and family tree. “I’ll show you,” Geno says, leaning in close. “You see.” 

Sid grins. Perfect. 

The date itself goes well. Sid takes them to his favourite restaurant. He orders steak, Geno orders swordfish. They chat easily, and—perhaps surprisingly—not entirely about hockey. 

It turns out, Geno works as public media coordinator for a non-profit public art group. Sid is surprised, although he isn’t sure why, exactly. “How did you get into that?” he asks. 

“Like non-profit,” Geno says simply. “Like helping. When I start, want to work with animals. Want to be vet when little, but science not so good.” 

Sid laughs out loud—his embarrassing, honking laugh—as Geno tells a story about how his mom used to do his science homework back in school, and how she was offended when his teacher gave him a less than perfect grade. 

“I’m a historian,” Sid says, confiding his own impartiality to sciences. “I work with the City.” 

From there, the conversation flows. Geno tells Sid about how he moved to Pittsburgh for school and never left. “Still miss family, of course,” Geno says. “But they visit lots. I go home in summer.” 

Sid nods along, and shares his own emigration story, how he was recruited by a headhunter and fell in love with the city. Throughout it all, Geno leans forward, listening intently. His elbows are braced on the the table, baring the corded muscle of his forearms. Sid gets distracted more than once just looking at Geno’s hands. He touches Sid, too, making eye contact and leaning in. He licks his lips, and Sid wonders if this is Geno making a move. His gaze is a heated heavy thing on Sid, and he feels hot under the collar.

"So," Sid says at the end of the night, after Geno paid for their meal. Sid tried to grab the cheque, but Geno wrestled him for it—almost literally—and said, 'You get the next one,' in a way that managed to imply there _would_ be a next time, and also that Geno had no intention of letting Sid pay. "Can I get your number?" He looks up at Geno through his lashes when he does, and Geno's eyes go hot and dark, and he licks his lips slowly. Sid shivers at the heat of it all. 

"Yes," Geno says. 

Sid pulls his phone out of his pocket, but before he can open his contacts, Geno wraps his big hand around Sid's wrist, his fingers circling all the way around and then some. Sid stares down at their joined hands, struck dumb at the feeling of Geno's thumb stroking the soft skin where his veins are visible. 

Sid doesn't get a chance to gather his wits. Geno plucks the phone deftly out of his lax fingers and starts tapping away at the screen. He hands it back a moment later, and when Sid looks down, he sees a newly created contact: "Zhenya" with a string of animal emojis behind it. 

"Zhenya?" Sid asks, making a face at the way he surely butchers the foreign name. 

"Yes," Geno says. "Is nickname, for friend." 

"Zhenya," Sid tries again.

Geno laughs, either at Sid's mispronunciation or the face he makes trying to say it right. Good humour is a good look on him, Sid realises, when he sees Geno smile like that. "We'll practice," Geno promises. "Geno good for now." 

"Geno, then," Sid agrees with a smile. "I'll text you." 

They go their separate ways, and Sid regrets not pushing harder to take Geno home with him, or at least getting a goodnight kiss. 

He texts Geno when he wakes up, just a simple 'good morning!' Geno texts him back in kind, only with an excessive amount of smiley faces tacked on to the end. It is surprisingly easy for the two of them to keep up a steady conversation throughout the day and the next and the next one after that. They meet up for drinks later in the week, sitting closer than is strictly speaking necessary. 

Geno trails the tips of his fingers over Sid's exposed forearms and leans in close to listen to him speak. Sid _does_ get his goodnight kiss this time, leaning in for it at the end of the night. 

Geno presses Sid back against his car, boxing him in with his arms on either side of Sid's shoulders. The kiss is soft and sweet, almost frustratingly so, and then they part ways.

Sid likes Geno. He likes him a lot. He's fun and easy to talk to, funny and kind. Sid likes spending time with him.

"Hey." 

Sid looks up from where he is sitting on the home bench before his team's practice. Geno is leaning against the boards, a smile.on his face. 

"Hey," Sid says, getting to his feet. "What are you doing here? Did your practice time get changed?"

"No," Geno says with a shake of his head. "No change."

"Then…," Sid says. 

"Came for you. Came to help, if you want."

Sid is honestly touched. "Are you sure?" he asks. "That would be great." Sid has assistant coaches, but keeping twenty eleven year olds in line is always a challenge. 

Geno's face breaks into an even bigger smile, and Sid gestures him closer so he can share his practice plan. It's nothing fancy given none of his kids are great talents. He's not coaching the next Gretzky here. 

Watching Geno lace up his skates, then help out on the ice gets Sid a little hot, if he's being honest. He is just so good with the kids, leaning down to get on their level, coaching them with a smile, teasing and playful. 

Once they have cleared the ice, Sid catches Geno speaking to Micah's dad. Micah is one of Sid's more promising players, he could probably make the jump to the rep team in the next year or two. The fact that Geno would take the time to do that, just drives home how great a guy he is, how much he cares. 

He sticks around while Geno's team practices. It's only fair, and Sid just wants to spend as much time as he can with Geno. He likes being around him. 

"You wait?" Geno asks when he steps off at the end of his ice time. 

"Yeah, I was hoping we could..." Sid trails off with a lick of his lips. 

Geno's eyes go hooded, and he takes a step towards him. In his skates he absolutely towers over Sid. "Yes," he says. "You wait." 

Sid lingers in the hall outside the dressing room, watching as Geno's kids come out one by one. Geno speaks to each of them and their parents, and Sid has to fight the urge to adjust himself in his pants. God, this is so embarrassing. 

Finally it is just the two of them. The hallway kind of stinks, and Sid's hands are cold, and his lips are chapped. Geno stalks across the short distance between them, boxing Sid in against the wall. He ducks his head and runs the tip of his nose along Sid's jaw to behind his ear. Then he exhales hotly, the damp stickiness of his breath tickling. Sid shudders. 

Geno kisses Sid. It feels inevitable, and Sid hums happily as their lips meet. He wraps his arms around Geno's neck, kissing him harder, digging his fingers into Geno's nape, and opening his mouth wider. God, it's so good. It's everything Sid has been wanting and nothing he could have expected. 

"Do you want—" Sid asks, tearing his mouth away from Geno's. Geno trails kisses over Sid's jaw and throat, temporarily distracting Sid. "Do you want, god—fuck, do you want to come home with me?" 

Geno pulls back and stares at Sid, his mouth gaping and his chest heaving. "Yes," he says. "Yes, want it, of course want—" 

Sid pulls him back down, and the two of them crash together hard and fast. 

Then behind them: "Oh! Oh my god!" 

Sid turns, and Geno jerks back out of his grasp. Sid doesn't recognize the man, but Geno definitely does. He takes a step forward, his hands held out like he is afraid the man will startle and flee. Sid doesn't know which would be worse: if he stayed or if he ran. 

"James," Geno says slowly. "What you do here?" His voice is deeper, his accent thicker than Sid has ever heard it. 

"Jimmy forgot his jock," the man says sounding a little stunned. Sid assumes Jimmy is his son. "I'm just going to grab it." He darts into the locker room, and Geno's shoulders slump. 

Fuck. 

The man—James comes out a moment later, clutching the jockstrap in his hand. He barely makes eye contact with Geno, mumbling about how he would see Geno at the game on Saturday. 

When Geno turns back to face Sid, he looks tired and years older than just a moment ago. “Come back to my place,” Sid says. When Geno hesitates, he adds, “We’ll talk.” 

Sid’s knuckles are white, and his fingers are cramping around the steering wheel before he is even halfway home. He doesn’t know what to say, doesn’t know what to think. He’s out, sort of. His parents and family know, so do most of his friends and coworkers, but it isn’t something he broadcasts a lot as a coach. It isn’t that he’s ashamed, not at all—not anymore—but that drive to hide, that voice that says _no one in hockey_ , is hard to fight against. 

He doesn’t know what Geno’s story is. 

“I’m sorry,” he says, once the two of them are seated in Sid’s livingroom. They each have a mug of steaming hot tea in front of them, because when Sid offered coffee Geno shook his head no, and when he offered something stronger he snorted out a laugh but still declined. Sid is hoping that’s a good sign, that not everything is ruined. 

“When I leave Russia,” Geno says slowly, haltingly, “family not know I like men. Always date girl, always think will marry girl, be happy, have babies.” 

Sid doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods encouragingly. 

“Come to America, big change. Everything very different. Of course some things good, some bad too. But I meet a man, and I love him. It’s first time I think—could marry. Could have baby, also with man. I tell my family, and my mother cried.” Geno looks down and picks at his fingers. “Is very—difficult. Very difficult. Can’t go back to how it was before, can’t go back home to Russia.” 

Sid nods again and then, after a brief hesitation, reaches out and takes Geno’s hand in his. Geno turns his palm up so Sid can twine their fingers together. When Sid squeezes, Geno squeezes back. 

“Is not secret I date men,” Geno says, “but don’t tell people always. Know what it’s like to be hated for—” He breaks off, staring at Sid. 

The back of Sid’s throat feels tight. He too knows what it’s like to be hated for who he loves, and he knows what kind of shitstorm could fall down on their heads because of it. They could both lose their coaching positions. Their reputations could be ruined because some parent doesn’t like that their son is being coached by a gay man. 

He and Geno haven’t done anything more than kiss yet. 

“I understand,” Sid says slowly, stroking Geno’s wrist with his thumb, “if you want to call this off, pretend it didn’t happen. I would understand.” He ignores the voice in the back of his head that says it would hurt like hell, because Sid _would_ understand, and the last thing he wants is to hurt Geno. 

Geno makes a frustrated sound in the back of his throat, turning his body so he’s facing Sid head-on. He pulls his hand out of Sid’s grasp and grips Sid’s shoulder. “Is last thing I want,” Geno says. “James, I think, mostly good guy. He will talk, I think, mean well, but,” Geno shrugs, “will create problems. Don’t want to hurt you, Sid. Don’t want to—” 

“Hey,” Sid says, cupping Geno’s face between his hands, “that’s not going to happen. You’re not going to hurt me. Not with this, not by being you. You’re-- you’re great. I like you, Geno. I like you a lot.” 

Geno smiles, wide and huge. He leans in and presses a gentle kiss to Sid’s lips, and Sid feels like there’s nothing the two of them can’t face. 

 

 **Epilogue**

Geno’s team wins the championship. 

Sid’s does not. 

It isn’t much of a shock. His team tries really hard, and Sid is proud of them. Maybe next year. 

Sid fixes his tie and looks down the long table at his team. Judging by the way they are all celebrating the year-end banquet, they don’t care they lost. It’s hockey in it’s purest form, and Sid is just happy to be a part of it. 

The next table over, Sid sees Danny and Matt, two players whose parents requested—demanded, more like—trades after the news of Sid and Geno spread throughout the organization. Sid smiles at them, and they quickly look away. He sighs. 

The minor uproar that resulted from Sid and Geno’s outing was nowhere near as bad as it could have been. The two transfers from Sid’s team, and there was a minor parent uprising—quickly squashed. Geno got the brunt of it, with the higher profile, but Kris and the other coaches, along with most of the parents, stepped in to shut it all down. 

They were actually pretty lucky, all things considered. 

Sid presents all his players with their participation trophies, dutifully smiling and shaking their hands as their parents take pictures. It’s—well, okay, it’s not his _favourite_ part of being a coach, but it’s up there, definitely. 

“Thanks for everything,” Doug’s mom tells him, shaking his hand at the end of the night. “We really appreciate all the hard work you put in all season.” 

“It was my pleasure,” he says. “Great bunch of kids.” 

She nods and looks like she wants to say something else, but bites her tongue. “Well, see you next season.” 

Sid appreciates those who support him quietly as much as the parents who banded together to prevent him and Geno from being fired. Combined it makes him think that _no one in hockey_ won’t be a reality forever. 

Geno is waiting for him in the parking lot once Sid makes his way outside. It’s a warm night, and Sid has his sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Geno looks good, leaning against his ridiculous car, looking long all over. It makes Sid’s mouth dry up. 

“How’d it go?” Geno asks, then leans down to give Sid a quick kiss on the mouth. There are still parents and players lingering in the parking lot, but Sid doesn’t have eyes for them, doesn’t worry about who looks or cares. 

“Great,” Sid says, holding up his own participation trophy. He has a shelf full of them at home. Geno mocked it mercilessly the first time he saw it, but Sid loves each and every one of them. 

Geno takes the small trophy from Sid and examines it seriously. “Best season yet?” he asks, looking a Sid with a too serious expression on his face. 

“Hm,” Sid says, looking down at the small trophy, and then back up and Geno. “Yeah, I guess it was.”


End file.
